I remember those days now, as one might remember old weathered pages in a cherished diary. Nearly thirty-five years of marriage have passed me by. I am now fifty-seven. Throughout it all, I have been the steady hand in our homewashing my husband’s shirts, preparing his meals, ensuring the familys comfort at every turn. My husband and I have two children, both raised and educated by my diligent care. I seemed always to be rushing about, like a squirrel gathering for winter, forever in motion and never still.
I worked several jobs at once so our children would want for nothing, so they might be as well-dressed as their classmates. It was always I who scrimped and saved, who took on every task, that our family could stand equal with the rest.
But my husband, bless him, was never one for hard labour. Once he reached his pension years, he simply settled into his chair by the fire and gave up working altogether. I, on the other hand, still trudge to work every morning, help our children care for our grandchildren, and tend the house from garret to garden. Many times Id ask my husband to take on workperhaps as a night warden or some such postbut he would only reply that we managed well enough on what we had, and there was no need for him to seek a part-time income. Yet, hes certainly no fool when it comes to food! I barely have the time to cook, and often when I come in late from work, hes eaten all the nicest bits and left me only the thin soup.
Once, over tea with a friend, I confessed my frustrations. She had a simple suggestion: cook two separate meals. I would use quality ingredients for myself, and for him, cheaper fare. So I returned home and told my husband the doctor had put me on a special diet, and because of that, he oughtnt touch my meals.
Now, Ive taken to hiding my food away. When my husband pops out to the shed, I indulge myself with chocolate. The good sausage and cheese, I tuck at the back of the fridge where he never looks, and when hes otherwise occupied, I savour every morsel in peace. Thank goodness there are two fridges in our houseone for ordinary groceries and the other for preserveswhich makes it easier to keep my secret stash.
Its the way of men, isnt it? Their eyes pass over what is right beneath their noses. I buy myself select turkey breast, steaming up delicate cutlets, while he gets the leftover pork, nearly past its sell-by, pepped up with herbshes none the wiser. I give him the low-quality pasta from the discount shop, only pennies a box, and for myself, I buy that fine durum wheat variety.
I bear no shame for these arrangements. I dont see myself as doing anything wrong. If he wishes to eat more grandly, let him rise and earn it. At our age, divorce seems foolishmost of life has already passed us by, and we share this house together. Why go through the trouble of selling it and splitting the pounds now? No, I think I shall carry on as I am, and that suits me just fine.
